Day 30: Sarria to Portomarin

So far this trip has been all overland, across old Roman roads buried under sand and  or sometimes cobblestone or pavement. The Camino is rarely within sight of water though it does cross numerous rivers. But Galicia, a region settled by seafaring Celts who followed the ocean roads long before the Romans developed inland routes, seems to cry for the sea along the Camino. Even long-settled farm families note their ties to the ocean shore with fish, crustaceans, and whales incised on walls and decorative trim. In the morning fog, hiking out of Sarria, I swore I could smell the salt air.

Crossing a Roman bridge, smelling the sea.

I left the city early enough to avoid the holiday pilgrim crowds and had massive chestnut forests all to myself. Beyond the chestnut woods came the vast oak woods where hogs are grazed in the fall on acorns. A few pilgrims wandered by. I found an ancient Camino marker. I was within the 100 kilometer range!

An old marker, beheaded .

A pilgrim is dwarfed by an ancient chestnut.

The path led through extraordinarily rich farmland, cattle country, dairy and hog farms, goats, orchards, grapevines and wineries. Everywhere the dogs. They followed us wagging their tails, or not - escorting us away from farm gates and open barns.
There are cats too, mostly strays and semi-wild. Untouchable. I sat at a tiny cafe for a moment's rest and up walks a large farm dog. He eyed me up, circled my chair, then laid at my feet. When it was time to go I absent-mindedly gave him a neck scratch. Oh no! He got up and followed me, nose to heel. Would be follow me to Santiago? No. He walked me to the farm where he lived and I heard a cattleman call him. "Crisco! Crisco!" I apologized for scratching him, but the old farmer smiled and said he was glad I did. "He deserves a reward. Works very hard."

Crisco at my feet.

Crisco's papa, and herd grazing close to the Camino.

"We are Galacian first," said Crisco's papa.

Crisco's papa spoke pretty good English. I asked him if I might have really smelled the sea this morning. Not too far from the coast, now, he said. "Besides, we are Galacian. The sea is in our blood. We are Galacian first." I travelled past so many beautiful farms. It could have been Ireland or Brittany. Or home. How the Celtic culture, wanderers on the open sea in their hide boats and cockle shells settled the coastline from Scottish islands to the Spanish coast, then came inland a little. Thousands of years settled established the Atlantic coastal corridors on highways of currents until the Romans built these roads we walk on now.

A talented pilgrim.

An impressive woodland choir.

I heard someone on a farm playing bagpipes, the chanter at least. Pilgrims strained to see the piper but hedgerows are winding and close. It's hard to see around the next bend much less a piper in some corner of a field. At a cafe break, a young guitarist strummed a happy song about a group of friends going on pilgrimage - one a rabbit, one a fox, and one a donkey. I came upon a group of people singing in the woods. Hymns. Old songs that the path itself would know. I realized there was music everywhere - in birdsong, the chatting of walking partners, in the treetops during a breeze, in the creeks and rivers that we crossed.

Hoping for a treat.

Stone causeway alongside a bubbly stream.

An entrance to an albergue farm.

After many miles of farmland hiking, the Camino began its descent into the town of Portomarin that sat across a large lake. The story of Portomarin includes, liker most Camino towns, a close brush with eternal rest as it suffered nearly 90% mortality during the Black Plague. But it is best known for its 20th century response to drowning under rising waters of the modern impoundment. Every structurer was moved uphill, stone by stone, block by block, beyond the reach of the lake. It looked impressive sitting there in the sun across the wide, blue lake , but my albergue host, Pedro, explained that less than 100 people lived in the town. He pointed to vacant buildings, shuttered businesses, and empty homes. "It's mostly old folks," he said. "There's nothing here for young people or families unless catering to pilgrims and only from April to October. It is slipping into obscurity."

Approaching Portomarin.

Treacherously steep and slippery descent .

The town that moved uphill - Portomarin.

My legs didn't know what to do here.    It was cruel!

The old city gate at the top of the stairs.

St. James pointing the way for the next morning.

I wandered the steep streets and fouybd an excellent supermacardo, bug by Camino standards, and full of foods that most non-Spanish pilgrims have been dreaming of. I bought soup and cheese and sandwich bread and yogurt and even found a jar of peanut butter! I ate that right out of the jar and swear that a P&J sandwich will be at the top of my list when I get home!! There was a section of Brit food, Korean noodles and vegetables, cereal (!!) and milk! Ah, how tired I was of the ten euro pilgrim menu. I got homesick thinking about food!